“Really, Ingred, they don’t seem to teach manners at the College now!” said Quenrede one day. “The way you scowled at Mrs. Galsworthy and Gertrude was most uncivil. You didn’t look in the very least pleased to see them.”
“I wasn’t! They’re the most stupid people on the face of the earth! And they stayed such ages. I thought they’d never go. Just when I wanted a nice private talk with you and Mother before the boys came back. Why should you look glad to see a person when you’re not?”
“For the sake of manners, my dear!”
“Then manners really mean humbug,” declared Ingred, who loved to argue. “To say you’re glad to see people, when you’re not, is telling deliberate fibs. Most hypocritical, I call it! Why can’t people tell the truth?”
“Because it would generally be offensive and unkind to do so,” put in Mother, who happened to overhear. “There’s another side to the question, too. When you say—against your will—that you are glad to see somebody, you mean that all the best part of you is glad—the kind, generous part that likes to give pleasure, not the selfish lower part that only thinks of its own convenience. So you are not really telling a fib, but being true to your nobler self. A great deal of what people call ‘plain speaking’ is simply giving rein to their most uncharitable thoughts. As a rule, I say Heaven defend me from those ultra-truthful souls who enjoy ‘speaking their minds.’ ”
“But are we to gush over every bore?” asked Ingred.
“There are limits, of course. We can’t let all our time be frittered away by idle friends, but we can generally manage tactfully without offending them. Don’t look so woebegone, childie! Nobody else is coming tonight, and I promise you tea in the woods tomorrow.”
“By ourselves?”
“Unless anyone very nice comes over to join us,” put in Quenrede quickly.
“You girls shall give the invitations. I won’t bring any middle-aged people,” laughed Mother, with a sly glance at Quenrede.
The party in the bluebell woods on Saturday was entirely a family one, with the exception of Mr. Broughten, who rode over on a motor-bicycle ostensibly to lend some microscopic slides to Athelstane, though Ingred suspected there was another attraction in the visit. Quenrede, who professed great surprise, gave him a guarded welcome.
“After all the fuss you made about my manners yesterday, you might have seemed more glad to see him,” sniffed Ingred critically.
“Might I? Well, really, I think I’m going to hang a label round my neck: ‘Pleased to meet you! Let ’em all come!’ It would save trouble. Stick tight to me when we’re gathering bluebells. Three’s better company sometimes than two. Don’t I like him? Oh yes, he’s all right, but I’m not keen on a tête-à-tête.”
After which hint, Ingred, who had some acquaintance with the perversity of Quenrede’s feminine mind, did exactly the opposite, and, abandoning her basket to the custody of Mr. Broughten, left him helping her sister to gather bluebells, and took herself off with Hereward.
“He’s not half bad!” she ruminated laughingly. “Not of course a fairy prince exactly, or even a Member of Parliament, but the bubbles on the pool by the whispering stones certainly came to ‘J,’ and his name is ‘John,’ for I asked Athelstane. There’s the finger of fate about it, and Queenie had better make up her mind.”
With Ingred, however, school matters were at present much more interesting than speculating about her sister’s possible future. It was an interesting term at the College. Cricket and tennis were in full swing, and she took an active part in both. The best of being at the hostel was that the boarders had the benefit of the tennis courts in the evening, and so secured an advantage in the matter of practice over any girls who did not possess a private court at home. So far the College had not competed in tournaments, but Blossom Webster was hopeful that later on in the term some champions might be chosen who would not disgrace the Games Club. Meantime she urged everybody to practice, and coached her favorites with the eye of an expert. Nora was particularly marked out for future distinction. She had made tremendous strides lately, and her swift serves were the terror of her opponents. The hostel felt justly proud of her achievements, and would collect in the evening, after prep., to watch her play a set of singles with Susie Wakefield, who, though older and taller, almost invariably lost.
Susie had good points of her own, however, and with Nora as partner could beat even Blossom and Aline occasionally. No doubt the future credit of the school was in their hands.
One evening it happened that Nora was in a particularly slashing and reckless mood, and she sent no less than three balls flying straight over the wall that bordered the tennis courts. They fell into the premises of old Dr. Broadfield, whose garden adjoined that of the school. They were not the first that had done so, indeed so many balls had gone over lately that the loss was growing serious. At one time the girls had been wont to ring Dr. Broadfield’s front-door bell and beg permission to pick up their property, but they had been received so sourly by his elderly housekeeper, that they hardly dared to ask again.
“Three good balls gone in half an hour!” grieved Verity. “There’ll soon be none left at this rate. I believe there must be a dozen at least lying on the grass over there, only that stingy old thing won’t throw them back. It’s really too bad.”
“How could we possibly get them?” ruminated
